


It's For Science

by Aichi



Series: Dragon Milk [1]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Breastfeeding, F/M, Lactation, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Morfessa wants to run an experiment. Luard makes an excellent, if somewhat embarrassed, test subject. (Please read tags.)





	It's For Science

**Author's Note:**

> OR: The One Where I Write The Goofiest Cheesiest Shit Possible Because I Don't Know What Porn Is
> 
> Listen, it's IC for Morfessa. She's Like That.
> 
> Anyway. Written upon request. Hope you like it. <3
> 
> Please don't proceed if you don't like the sound of the tags.

“Oh, you’re here? Good, I was beginning to think I’d have to come looking for you.”

Luard shuffles nervously, the sound of his heels clicking against the floor all too audible in the silence that follows. Morfessa doesn’t even look at him, still buried in whatever text she’d been in the middle of reading when he came in. He’s not sure what to do, where to turn his attention – staring at her feels weird, but looking anywhere else feels _worse_ , in a way, because this is Morfessa’s _bedroom_.

The place is just as neat and tidy and filled with books as her lab is, and Luard almost could have mistaken it for there if not for the massive, luxurious four-poster bed in the centre. She seems to have far more pillows than are strictly necessary, each one intricately embroidered and edged, and even the sheets are similarly luxurious, plush and soft and... well, inviting, honestly. Not that his thoughts are going anywhere near _there_.

The sound of a chair shifting against the floor snaps his attention back to Morfessa as she finally gets up from her desk.

“I have an... experiment I’d like to attempt,” she says, “and you’re going to help me.”

Luard opens his mouth to speak, to ask why she’s called him _here_ , of all places, instead of the lab, when she continues.

“That is, if you agree. You’re well within your rights to refuse, of course.”

She walks over to him, graceful as always despite her heavy cloak and heels even higher than his, and looks him up and down. He finds himself standing a little straighter, without even thinking about it.

“Well~?” she asks, after a moment, her voice just a little lower than it needs to be.

“You haven’t told me what you want me to do yet,” he mutters, biting back an irritated growl. She may be the one in charge, but that doesn’t mean Luard likes having his time wasted. He’s got his _own_ experiments to run, damn it, ones that don’t involve being dragged out of the comfort of his lab and into a place like this – not that he hasn’t ever imagined being in here, of course, not that he hasn’t been _curious_ , but he’s _not_ thinking about that. He’s not. She’s _just_ said it’s for an experiment, not–

His flustered confusion must be showing on his face, he belatedly realises, because Morfessa smirks and lifts an eyebrow.

“Well,” she begins, and her tone hardens a little, almost imperceptibly, “you’re aware that during my work with dragshifting, some parts of my body have suffered... accidents. Alterations.”

He nods, and she steps closer to him. Too close. Looking up, he tries to hold eye contact with her, because she’s a fair bit taller than him, even more so with the heels, and the only alternative is staring straight ahead at, well–

A finger slides under his chin, an accompanying thumb caressing his lower lip, and he freezes, cheeks flushing under her sudden touch.

“I thought maybe you’d be interested in helping me runs a few tests on some of those... parts.”

“Wh–” he chokes, and she lets go of him as suddenly as she’d taken hold. He takes a step back, wobbling uncertainly on his heels, frantically turning his gaze away to somewhere, _anywhere_ else.

_Test some of– what the hell?_ His cheeks burn as his brain rolls over the words again, trying to piece them together with the fact that she’d invited him to her _bedroom_ – did that – did that mean she actually wanted to – no. No, of course not. But it was common knowledge amongst the dragwizards that Morfessa hid _some_ kind of dragonic body parts under that cloak, and there were always _rumours_ , whispers that those were – he can’t bring himself to even think it. Not in her presence.

She turns away from him with another smirk, busying herself with something, but he barely notices, too busy wondering when it got so _warm_ in here and wishing his face would stop getting hotter and his thoughts would stop looping on themselves and – and she turns back a moment later, her cloak falling to the floor.

_Oh_.

Slowly, almost fearfully, Luard’s eyes travel from the pile of fabric on the floor, up Morfessa’s body to her still-smirking expression. The action hasn’t actually _revealed_ anything, the second layer of her outfit still firmly in place, but the _outline_ of her body is visible now – softly curving hips, a slim yet obviously muscled waist, and further up, her large, clearly well-supported, umm–

Biting his lip, he moves on from that area before he has a chance to think anything that she might pick up on, focusing on her face instead.

“Go on,” she says, half-encouraging, half-serious, “ask your questions. Or leave, if you like. I told you, participation is optional.”

Silence hangs in the air for a moment. Luard exhales slowly, desperately willing his tension to melt away, and opens his mouth to speak.

“Why me?” he practically croaks. That isn’t even what he meant to ask. Why is his throat so dry?

“Come now,” she smiles, “did you really think I wouldn’t notice your attraction to me? You’re talented at many things, Luard, but subtlety is not one of them. I asked you here because I thought you would enjoy what I have in mind, and, quite frankly, because _I_ would enjoy your participation as well. Now,” and her gaze doesn’t break from his, even for a moment, “ask your real question, hmm?”

_She’ll enjoy – does that mean she actually – no. Of course no. She doesn’t think of you like that, idiot._

“What–” he manages, slowly, his throat cracking with each word. “What did you want to – to _test_?”

“Oh,” she says, far too casually, “just these.” She raises a hand, Luard’s traitorous eyes drawn immediately back to her chest as she reaches up to cup one of her full, shapely breasts. She squeezes, deliberate and teasing, and it squishes around her fingers _just so_ and suddenly Luard’s entire body is on fire. “Would you like me to show you?”

A tense groan escapes Luard’s mouth. What is he supposed to say? If he says no then she’s going to stop and probably make him leave, and he doesn’t _want_ to leave, he wants to – _fuck,_ he wants her to take that undershirt off and press him down on her bed and do all the things that he’s fantasized about but would never act on because Morfessa is the ruler of this castle, damn it, she’s so powerful and elegant and he’s just – just–

“Yes,” he blurts out.

_Idiot. Now she’s going to think you’re some kind of pervert._

“Are you sure?” she asks, smile vanishing for a moment. “As you know, I’m only interested in test subjects who are fully consenting. There are no consequences if you opt out, or we can push the experiment to a later date if you’re not ready.”

The words are so _serious_ that Luard might have laughed, if only his throat wasn’t so damn dry.

“I’m ready,” he says quietly, automatically.

“Just checking.” Morfessa’s smirk returns, and something in Luard’s chest tenses up, because this side of her is somehow even scarier than her usual strict-but-fair headmistress vibe. “One moment,” she continues, and makes a small gesture with one hand, a faint crackle of magic singing in the air as she deftly undoes a few buttons at her side and pulls her undershirt over her head.

Luard’s gaze follows it as it drops to the floor, her brassiere going with it, and the realisation that she just used _magic_ to unhook it makes his face burn up in the exact way he’d been trying to avoid by not looking at _her_. His mind is still running in circles – how is this happening, this isn’t real, this _can’t_ be real, things like this don’t just _happen_ , she’s playing some kind of trick – but, at the same time, he knows Lady Morfessa of the Demon World Castle Eingang isn’t the kind of woman who plays tricks, and the fact of the matter is that Lady Morfessa is standing half naked right there, right now, right in front of him. Still, he keeps his eyes fixed pointedly on the bundle of dark cloth on the ground, all too aware of the nails biting into his palms, the heart pounding in his chest, the blood rushing to _all the wrong places, damn it_.

His own robes are uncomfortably hot and heavy, he realises, but she hasn’t asked him to remove them.

“You know,” she says, after a moment, “you _will_ have to look at me for this to work.”

Luard swallows, and slowly, fearfully, looks up.

He half-expects her to slap him or something, to chide him for being such a pervert and thinking she’d actually call him up here and strip in front of him in a way that could have been ripped directly from a bad erotic novel – but she really is just standing there, watching him casually, an eyebrow raised in amusement as she casts her hat onto the floor too.

Something in him wants to speak, but he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Morfessa’s breasts are, quite frankly, _huge_ , definitely too big for his hands ( _why did he think that, damn it),_ and still impressively rounded and firm, even without supportive clothing – and – and Luard can practically feel the cogs of his brain turning as they process the image, because it’s somehow both shocking and also exactly how he’d imagined – and one of them is entirely covered in deep blue scales.

They begin peppering her skin just under her collarbone, encroaching downwards and clustering together to cover the entire right side of her chest and a large portion of her stomach in their iridescent blue sheen, before carrying on past her hipbones to – to the areas still hidden by her clothes. Each one is perhaps only the size of a fingernail, and they create an alluring pattern that almost seems to flow over her as she moves, lazily resting a hand on her hip.

“Surprised?” she asks, and then, clearly not expecting a response – which is right of her, because Luard probably couldn’t speak even if he had anything to say – “You’re all red, you know. It’s cute.”

As if hearing _that_ is going to make him any less so. As if _anything_ could, with her standing there like that, beautiful and confident and _damn it,_ _how is_ he _the one embarrassed and helpless when_ she’s _the one exposed_ _like this_.

“My body has been this way for some years, as you know,” she goes on, all business even as she lifts her free hand to cup one of – _them_ – again, kneading it softly as she speaks, and Luard tries desperately to focus on the other one, the scaled one, instead, “but I didn’t start thinking until recently about some of the, shall we say, internal effects it might have had. And, you know me, I got curious.”

As if to prove a point, she reaches up to jiggle the other one too, and suddenly, Luard has nowhere else to look. He lets out a half-groan, half-whine, instantly transfixed by the way she moulds skin and scales alike under her touch, squishing the flesh between her fingers in a clearly deliberate way that makes his gut twist and burn. She’s saying something else, he thinks, something about scientific curiosity, but the words pass by him before he can grasp them.

She’s _beautiful_ , and the fact that he actually let himself think it that plainly just makes thinks even more embarrassing.

“I wondered what kind of milk they might produce,” she says, the words snapping his attention back to her as she catches the nipple of her left breast – the human one – between her thumb and forefinger, pinching it gently, “So, naturally, I started developing a spell to easily induce lactation.”

_W-wait, what?_

The words catch in Luard’s throat, and all that comes out is a splutter.

“It’s taken a while, but I finally got it working to my satisfaction,” she goes on, rolling the nipple hypnotically between her fingers, “and now, you get to be my lucky test subject.” She tugs, kneading at the breast with her free fingers, and lets out a gentle, satisfied sigh as a few drops of – of – _of_ – _liquid_ trickle onto her thumb. “Of course, I could have simply pumped them and had you drink from a glass, but I think you’ll agree it’s more fun to do things directly, hmm?”

_She wants me to – to –_

Morfessa lifts her thumb to her lips, Luard’s eyes trailing helplessly after it, and licks.

_Why –_

“Mmm, tastes normal enough,” she mutters, after a moment, “well, if there _are_ any interesting side effects of ingestion, I suppose they’re unlikely to work on me. _You_ , on the other hand...” she trails off, pointedly.

Luard’s entire body going up in flames at any moment is starting to feel like a very real possibility.

“Wh-what if it’s toxic?” he asks, stupidly, and mentally kicks himself because _what the hell,_ that’s _the thing you decide to ask? How did you even come up with that?_

Shaking her head, she lets out a quiet ‘tut’. “I _did_ run some preliminary lab tests, you know. I’m not an amateur who puts her test subjects in danger. Don’t worry, there’s no indication of anything that would cause harm to either of us, elf or human.”

Of course she’s thought of that. Lady Morfessa, always on top of things.

“Anyway,” she says, turning away, “you can remove your cloak and shoes, if you like.”

The words take a second to register in Luard’s brain. She’s asking him to – no, not strip, just – well, it’s true his clothes probably aren’t the most comfortable, if he’s going to have to – how are they going to do this? Standing? Does she want him to – _fuck –_ to sit in her lap or something?

_Are we really going to do this?_

Maybe he should say no after all, he thinks. On principle. The whole thing is strictly inappropriate, no matter how much he’s fantasised about painfully similar scenarios. They’ve always been impossible, wish-fulfilling, unprofessional things he could never let _anyone_ know about, much less _her_ , or–

Or what? He’d get in trouble? She’d be upset? But she _did_ know, somehow – somehow that he’ll have to worry about later – and she still chose him for this, not in spite of it, but _because_ of it. ‘ _Because I thought you would enjoy what I have in mind.’_

Luard growls, very quietly, and bites his lip. That settles it. If she’s going to indulge him like this, then he’s going to do what she says, and he’s going to do a good job, and he’s going to _impress_ her, damn it.

Fingers shaking, he tugs awkwardly at his coat, letting it fall to the floor. She, meanwhile, takes a seat on the edge of her bed, and bends down, unzipping her tall, alluring boots, and Luard busies himself placing his hat down and fumbling with his own heels because _that’s_ definitely not appropriate to think about right now. He pauses for a moment, then pulls off his gloves too. If he has to touch her, he reasons to himself, they’re not going to be comfortable for her.

When he finally, tentatively looks back at Morfessa, she’s half-reclining lazily against her pillows, gently squeezing herself with one hand and supporting herself with the other.

“Be a good boy and bring that with you, will you?” she says, indicating another pillow at the far end of the bed. Luard hands it to her almost automatically, and she slides it behind her back, arranging the others around it to allow her to rest more comfortably upright. “Now,” – and she spreads her legs a little, patting the bed in between her knees – “sit.”

Suddenly, Luard is once again all too aware of the tightness in his chest. The feeling wraps around his ribs and squeezes, driving the breath and the words out of him and making his skin prickle. Every inch of his body is burning with fear and anticipation and arousal and there’s no _way_ she’s not going to be able to feel it practically radiating from him the second he gets close. Forcing out a shallow breath, he puts a knee up on the bed and pushes himself on before his brain can start questioning itself again.

He settles awkwardly into place, kneeling between her legs, hands on his knees and eyes on anything but hers.

“Luard, look at me,” she says, gently but firmly, as if she’d read his mind, and the way her voice wraps around the sound of his name is just _too much_. A finger brushes his jaw, but he doesn’t even need its guidance for his gaze to meet hers again.

Fuck, he’s shaking so much. What if she thinks he doesn’t want to be here?

“I’m going to have you work on this one first, okay?” She cups her human-skinned breast and lifts, squeezes it again before letting it fall. “You don’t have to tell me right away if anything happens, just remember how it feels and tastes and we’ll do a detailed interview later.”

“I-interview?” he yelps, before he can stop himself. He’s not sure it’s possible for him to get any redder at this point, but Morfessa’s certainly doing her best, probably fully aware of how her words are going straight to his – well, he’s trying really really hard not to think about that fact that she’s almost certainly noticed _that_ , too.

“Of course.” She smiles, half tender and half smirking. “It’s an experiment. We need to actually gather some data, after all.”

A quiet groan escapes Luard’s lips. The way she keeps looking at him is making it obvious she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing, knows how much even the embarrassment of it all is getting to him, probably knows how _hot_ that smirk is, too.

“Now,” she starts, and Luard’s stomach does a backflip, because he can feel what’s coming just from her tone, “ready to begin?”

“Yes,” he says, hoarsely, and she takes one of his hands in hers, coaxes him forward.

Once he’s within reach, her other hand slips over his shoulder, fingers caressing the back of his neck before sliding up into his hair, and he’s pretty sure he can feel that touch all the way down to the base of his spine, somehow. She, meanwhile, _must_ be able to feel him burning up now, if she couldn’t before, but he can’t look at her face to gauge her reaction, because she presses gently down on the back of his head, guiding his face down towards her chest.

_Fuck, she’s–_

“Luard,” Morfessa says, quietly. “You’re resisting.”

“I-I’m not–” he begins, and in the same moment realises that he _is_ , that he went stiff the moment he looked down at her body again and realised how _close_ she is. “Sorry. I– didn’t mean to.”

The fingers run though his hair again, gentle and calming. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

His chest tightens. “I can do it,” he growls, defensively, mainly towards himself.

And to prove it, he leans down and kisses, just above her nipple.

It’s only brief, chaste, but the warmth of her skin is like electricity shooting through his already burning body, and suddenly, Luard wants to bury his face in something, because _what the hell was that_ , what did he just _do_ , but there’s nowhere to hide except in Morfessa’s–

“Sorry,” he mumbles, uncharacteristically, settling for squeezing his eyes shut.

Her fingers snake into his hair again, his body jerking sightly as they tighten. This time, her touch is firm, commanding, and she presses him down again, his eyes opening almost automatically, because that’s what she’d want, and his next breath catching in his throat, because her breast is inches from his face now, and her grip is too strong to pull away easily. Her skin, up close, is beautiful – not unblemished, with faded scars and markings visible in various places, but _beautiful –_ pale, smooth, and clearly well taken care of.

Fuck, he wants to touch it again.

“That was very brave of you,” she says, the smirk obvious in her voice. “Now go on~”

Luard swallows, willing his damn body to stop shaking already, but she’s so _close_ now, and he can _smell_ her, and she smells sweet, like some kind of fruit or flower, and it’s probably from whatever she uses in her hair, and fuck, her hair is beautiful too, a few loose curls of it hanging down over her chest, and–

“Go on,” she says again, her voice barely a whisper, the words accompanied by another press to the back of his head.

Transfixed, he lets her guide him forward, until his lips are directly above her soft, pink nipple.

“You can do it. Good boy.”

He lowers his head obediently and wraps his lips around it, giving it a small, tentative suck.

This time, _she’s_ the one to gasp, her breath hissing sharply as he touches her. Fingers tighten in his hair, drawing a muffled whine out of him, and he looks up, as best he can without moving his head, to see her face flushed and eyes closed, mouth half open in surprise.

_D-did I do something wro_ – his brain starts, but the thought is cut off as her hand presses down on him again, insistent.

“Yes...” she whispers – or he thinks she does, anyway, her voice so quiet he might have imagined it.

Gently, nervously, he sucks at her again, head still spinning just from the idea of _actually doing this_ . He – he can’t pretend he’s never thought about it, of course, but – but now, in the moment, he’s realising he doesn’t know what to actually _do_ . Simply pulling the nipple between his lips is making her react, sure – and he does it again, and she lets out another low gasp – but there’s, well, nothing coming _out_ yet.

He has to do his best for her, he thinks. Put aside the uncertainty and _impress her_.

Determined, he sucks again, more forcefully, drawing the nipple further into his mouth. It feels surprisingly natural, despite everything, like his mouth was _made_ for this, for the shape of her. He sucks at her again, and again, holds the quickly hardening nipple between his lips and licks, probing gently with his tongue. Despite the heart pounding in his chest and the heat still flooding his skin, it feels _right –_ and he finds himself wanting _more_.

Her hand still clings in his hair, her gasps and murmurs urging him on, so he sucks harder again, works around the tip with his tongue, exploring the firmer skin of the nipple itself in contrast to the softness around it, pulling it deeper again and again, and–

Something warm dribbles onto his tongue, and he freezes. Above him, Morfessa lets out a soft sigh, her hand fisting almost painfully in his hair.

It’s – it’s _sweet_. The taste is stronger and more flavourful than the typical goat milk he’s used to, and it’s _warm_. He sucks again, practically dragging the nipple into his mouth – and more of it comes out, spilling over his tongue, and he swallows it down eagerly, even as something in the back of his mind reminds him that he can’t tell how it compares to other humans’ milk, that that’s why he was a terrible choice for this, that she’s just going to be disappointed in him in the end – but, no, surely she _knows_ he doesn’t have that kind of reference, and she still chose him, despite it.

He steals a glance up at her, even as he continues sucking, and his gaze meets hers. She’s breathing in short, laboured pants, her eyes wide and mouth half-pulled into a smile as she watching him.

“You can–” and she gasps again as he sucks particularly hard, “–use your hand, if you like.”

Without hesitation, Luard braces himself with one hand and lifts the other to her breast, letting out a muffled groan of his own as he lightly brushes her skin. It’s soft, _so soft_ , and he practically sinks right into it at the slightest pressure, warm skin spilling around his fingers as he squeezes. Kneading gently, he wraps his lips more firmly over the nipple, pressing them into the skin around it, and continues sucking, building up a strong but steady rhythm. Morfessa moans in quiet satisfaction, her body shifting as she arches her back.

Luard wants to ask if he’s doing this right, if he’s pulling too hard or hurting her, but her grip in his hair is too strong for him to pull back, and, in the end, her reactions speak for themselves. Swallowing reflexively as more of her – and his brain still takes a moment to wrap around the word – her _milk_ spills into his mouth, he keeps up his rhythmic sucking, letting the sweetness of it wash over his tongue. More seems to be coming, now, perhaps because of the way he’s squeezing at her – so, as an experiment of his own, he gathers as much of her breast as he can in his hand, rolling his palm hard against it.

Milk practically squirts into his mouth, and he almost chokes in surprise.

Coughing, he tries to jerk his head back, but her grip on him tightens again, fingers twisting in his hair and holding him firmly in place. Body shaking with the effort, he swallows as best he can, a few stray drops escaping and dribbling down his chin.

Above him, Morfessa’s breathy moaning turns into a laugh.

“I appreciate the eagerness,” she says, fingers loosing and running tenderly, comfortingly through his hair, “but be careful. Take your time.” There’s a pause, and she continues, quietly, “You can do it.”

Swallowing again as more begins to pool in his mouth, he nods and mumbles indistinctly against her, resuming his sucking routine and kneading more gently this time. She’s so perfectly soft and malleable beneath his hand and lips, the way her warmth floods into him as he tugs on her so oddly satisfying – and, yes, he has to admit, it tastes _good_. There’s so much of it, too, and it feels like it just keeps coming, and he wonders if he’s expected to drink her dry, because, shit, he never asked. Why didn’t he ask? Should he move to the next one already? What if she’s bored and waiting for him to move on?

He _wants_ to drink her dry, though, he realises, wants to impress her by accepting everything she has to offer.

Bracing himself against the bed, he leans into her, sucks harder, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration as he pulls at her, working his lips and tongue around the bottom of the nipple in the way that seems to make her react the most, swallowing again and again as his mouth fills. Her body shudders, chest heaving with laboured breaths, but she holds his head firm against her, and, obediently, he doesn’t stop, even once the flow of milk starts to taper off.

Eventually, even his enthusiastic kneading produces only a tiny dribble, and he settles for licking up the few droplets that escaped down her chest, working his tongue over the skin in long, eager strokes, his whole body buzzing with excitement and satisfaction, because _he did it._

“You’re doing very well,” she says, petting his head again, the touch sending a rush of warmth through him. “I’m proud of you. But don’t forget, you’re only halfway done~”

She gives a gentle tug on his hair, and Luard reluctantly allows himself to be pulled back from her, a thin trail of drool keeping them connected until she tilts his head back, their eyes meeting again. Her gaze is warm, pleased, and it fills him with a soft and satisfied glow, but there’s still a glint in her eye that keeps him on his toes.

“I-I’m doing my best,” he mumbles, half-grumbling, half-earnest.

Morfessa smirks, then pushes him down once again, directing his head towards her other breast.

“Carry on then~ This is where it really gets interesting, after all.”

A nervous moan escapes Luard’s lips as she brings him closer to her chest again. There’s something different about seeing her scales this close, he thinks, something almost frighteningly intimate. He’d been so focused on the task at hand that he hadn’t really noticed before, but now, his face just inches from them, the way they shift and shimmer with the motion of her breathing is... entrancing.

She really is beautiful.

Tentatively, he reaches up to brush his fingers around the curve of her breast, and a quiet gasp escapes him as he makes contact with the scales. They’re soft – not as soft as her skin, but not truly firm like those of a dragon – and his fingers feel like they could sink into them almost as easily as her other breast. Their pattern is so perfectly _regular_ too, as neat and organised as the woman herself.

Up close, her second nipple seems slightly larger than the other, and darker too, the skin tinted almost purple to match the scales around it. Luard swallows reflexively as he flicks his thumb over it, the tip already stiff with excitement. Cupping her breast in his hand as he does, he can’t help but notice it seems _heavier_ , too. The weight of the scales might make a difference, he muses, but they’re so small and soft it’s hard to imagine they’d be noticeable to–

Morfessa presses at the back of his head again, gentle but insistent, and he almost yelps.

_Right._

With a deep breath, he lowers his head and takes the nipple in his mouth.

Immediately, it strikes him as far different to the first. The nipple itself is firmer, definitely a little larger that the other now that he can feel it like this, and the texture around it is surprisingly satisfying to run his tongue over. Probing around the base of the nipple and sliding along the tiny cracks between scales, he stretches his jaw and takes as much of her as he can into his mouth. Somewhat more confident this time, he closes his lips firmly around her and tugs, just as he did before, drawing his head back as far as she allows and sucking eagerly before pressing down again, gently at first but quickly picking up the pace.

“Enthusiastic, aren’t you?” she practically purrs, stroking his hair as he sucks, her voice just the tiniest bit breathless. “Good boy~”

The only response he manages is a breathy huff, his mouth and attention focused on her chest. Tongue circling around the nipple as he suckles rhythmically, he adds pressure from his hand too, stroking and squeezing at her scaly flesh in the same way that made her other breast react. It’s firmer than the other as well as heavier, and Morfessa groans softly as his fingertips work into it.

It takes only a few more determined sucks before liquid spills into his mouth.

Luard gulps it down with a muffled moan of triumph, and as he does, more milk begins to flow. It seems to come much easier this time, probably because he’s got the hang of coaxing it out now, he thinks, a little dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he swallows it down again – as far as he can tell, it’s more about stimulating the area around it than just sucking the nipple itself. The thought fills him with an odd sense of pride, and, judging by Morfessa’s noises and her fingers fisted in his hair, she finds his attempts satisfactory too.

Squeezing and suckling again in unison, he earns another sizeable spurt, grunting quietly with the effort as he swallows that too. It might be his imagination, but the taste seems stronger this time, as well – not quite sickly, but so sweet he can practically smell it. There’s something rich and creamy about it, and, as the next suck draws another flood of warmth into his mouth, he starts to realise it seems thicker too. The mouthful after that is almost a struggle to gulp down.

This is what Morfessa wanted to investigate, he reminds himself. Pay attention, remember the taste, the texture, how it all feels – then you can impress her again later when she asks about the results.

Luard lets his eyes drift shut as he continues sucking, swallowing yet another fresh, sweet mouthful. Focusing on the sensations, he can practically feel it settling in his belly – there’s so much of it, and it’s on top of what he’s already drunk from her, and, yeah, the thickness of it is obvious now in how _heavy_ it feels as it slides down his throat. Swallowing it is quickly starting to become tiring, he realises, but regardless, the feeling is surprisingly relaxing, almost like he could curl up and drift off to sleep while still suckling, snuggling against the smooth warmth of her scales.

“You’re very good at this,” Morfessa murmurs under her breath, still tenderly petting his hair. “Keep going.” And then, as Luard obediently swallows another mouthful, “I’m glad you said yes, you know. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

For some reason, _th_ _at_ makes his skin burn more than anything else. With a whine, he buries his face against her chest and sucks harder – busying himself with an important task to avoid talking to his boss, part of him thinks dryly – but it doesn’t stop the heat from pooling in his stomach, and he’s not sure anymore if it’s the warmth of the milk or just his own arousal.

Whatever it is, it’s rapidly making it harder to think straight, his body hot and heavy with milk but still instinctively struggling to gulp down another mouthful, and another, another, his belly feeling fuller and fuller as he tugs at Morfessa’s nipple again and again, her hand ruffling gently in his hair. A light-headed moan slips from his throat, muffled against her breast, and she laughs softly.

“Don’t get too carried away,” she chides.

With a whine, Luard stops for a second to catch his breath, and a shiver – a _need_ – vibrates down his spine.

He’s so _tired_ , but he doesn’t want to stop. He wants–

He wants–

The words won’t come. A frustrated snort is all he can manage.

It’s burning everywhere now, in his throat and chest and stomach but mostly between his legs, and it only gets worse as he latches onto her again, practically grabbing her breast in his mouth and tugging with all the fervor of a starving animal. Breath coming in laboured huffs, he forgoes his too-slow pattern of rhythmic swallowing and simply sucks with all the energy he can manage, thoughts slipping away from him and falling somewhere between exhaustion and desperation. All that matters is that his mouth is full of her again, that he tastes as much of her sweet, addictive warmth as possible.

It isn’t until her thigh brushes his crotch that he realises he’s climbed forward to straddle Morfessa’s leg, but by then it’s also too late for him to care.

Milk dripping down his chin, he lets out a desperate groan as he rubs himself against her, earning a chuckle that he’s too far gone to even be embarrassed by, and some words that pass right through his head without forming a coherent sentence _._ It doesn’t matter anyway, he thinks. All that matters now is _her_ , the warmth of her silky scales and the smell of her soft skin and the satisfied noises she makes and her heat filling him up to the point where his stomach hurts and he’s dizzy from the effort of it all and he can’t even _think_ anymore because all he wants is to keep suckling as he grinds against her thigh and the friction finally, _finally_ disperses the burning between his legs and her fingers catch in his hair and–

“Luard,” she says, and the seriousness of her voice pulls at him.

He whimpers, part of him desperate to concentrate, to pay attention to her words, while a much more powerful part wants nothing more than to keep going, keep drinking her dry and rutting against her until he–

“Listen to me, Luard.”

Suddenly, his hips are being _held_ , frozen in place by an invisible force. A muffled cry of despair escapes him as he tries to move against her again, desperate to regain the sweet friction that had already brought him so _close_. In the corner of his vision, Morfessa’s hand traces symbols in the air that his overheated brain just barely manages to identify as a binding spell.

“I won’t do this sort of thing when you’re not in your right mind,” she says, and he sobs desperately against her chest, because the words are just barely grazing his consciousness and he doesn’t know what they _mean,_ “at least, not this time. Maybe with proper consent. For now, I think it’s time we stopped.”

_That_ his brain understands, and he cries out, frantically, because he’s _so close_ and he _can’t move_ and _please_ , _please, just a little more_ –

His mouth can’t even form the words to beg. All that comes out is a trail of drool and a pathetic moan, and even that is stifled when Morfessa pushes his face gently back into her breast, stroking the back of his head soothingly as she forms another symbol with her free hand.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, even as his body shivers in desperation and he latches onto her nipple again just because he doesn’t know what else to do, “just rest. You did well. I’m proud of you.”

The softness of her voice sinks into his bones, weighing him down, and he barely has time to think the words _sleep spell_ before it encircles him completely. Her hand trails softly though his hair, again and again, and it’s all he can do to suck weakly at her chest as his mind drifts away from him.

“You’ve been a very good boy. Thank you for humoring me with this.”

 

Luard awakens slowly, blearily, his body heavy with the weight of a good meal and blanketed by something thick and warm. It feels unfamiliar, but safe, comforting somehow, so he snuggles into it, rolling onto his side to find a more comfortable position. There’s a pillow under his head, and part of his mind registers that it’s not his own, and that he should be worried, maybe, but it’s so soft and silky and luxurious, and his body is so _exhausted_ and _full_ , so he allows his head to sink sleepily into it anyway.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, and it should have startled him, but he’s still so _heavy_ , “how are you feeling?”

Groaning quietly with the effort, he opens his eyes, blinking away the fog covering his brain.

“Tired,” he mumbles, and Morfessa smirks as she takes a seat on the bed next to him.

“Well,” and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice, “you used up a lot of energy. Or did you forget?”

“I–” Luard’s brow furrows as he digs inward, searching for the memory of how he got here, and where _here_ even _is_. The beautiful silken sheets and pillows mean this is likely Morfessa’s bed, which means he’s in her room, and the thing lying over him is probably her cloak, considering she’s not wearing it, and – that’s right. She’d called him up here for help with some sort of experiment, and–

_Oh._

The dam breaks, and the memories start flooding back, the weight in his stomach and the lingering sweetness in his mouth more than enough proof to convince him _that wasn’t a dream._ Skin prickling with shame, he rolls over and buries his face in the pillows again before she can catch him turning red.

_Oh no._

“It’s okay,” she laughs, as he groans into the bed, “your assistance was more than satisfactory.”

Luard groans again, shaking his head into the pillow, because _fuck_ , it’s all coming back – he’d rubbed himself against her like some sort of fucking horny animal, but of course it’s _Morfessa_ , so she’s classy enough to pretend it wasn’t–

“I mean it,” she says, as if she’d sensed his thoughts. “I can’t say I really expected _that_ kind of reaction, though.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he chokes out. _That’s not a real apology, idiot._

She smiles broader than ever. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m hardly going to hold you accountable for doing something like that under the affects of an aphrodisiac. Especially after I subjected you to it – albeit unintentionally.”

Even now, the words take a second to register in Luard’s brain. “A-an aphrodi–”

“I thought you were just enjoying yourself too much, at first,” she goes on, and his interjection trails off as he raises his head, dumbfounded, “but I tried to communicate, and you weren’t reacting. Like the words went right over your head. I felt it best to stop you, before you did anything else you hadn’t consented to.” She stops, and sighs. “I’m the one who needs to apologise, to be honest. I never anticipated that kind of outcome.”

“I-it’s fine,” Luard mumbles, automatically, even as he tries to process her words. His brain still feels slow, murky, like it hasn’t fully woken up yet.

For a moment, they sit in awkward silence, Luard trying desperately not to curl in on himself in embarrassment, and Morfessa watching him quietly, patiently, her lips curved into a small, apologetic, yet still amused smile.

“I said so earlier, but, for the record, I’m glad you agreed to participate,” she continues, after a minute. “I thought you might refuse, honestly. You may be a brat, but sometimes you’re too good for your own good.”

“Wh-what’s that supposed to mean?!”

She smirks again, apparently satisfied. “There you go, back to normal.”

“H-hey...” he trails off, turning away before his face can flush again. She’s right, though, he has to admit. Despite the uncomfortable fullness still weighing down his stomach, his head is already starting to clear, his memories slotting themselves back into place, and, as long as he doesn’t think about _that particular part_ too hard, he’d done pretty well, right? Morfessa seemed satisfied, at least, and she praised him, didn’t she? His heart swells a little at the thought, and he prays it doesn’t show on his face.

“We can try again sometime, if you’d like,” she says, and Luard freezes, any progress he’d made towards beating back his embarrassment shattered in an instant. “And we can discuss consent ahead of time, so you won’t be left all frustrated. It really was sad leaving you all desperate and whimpering like that, after all.”

Her smirk is _dangerous_ , and Luard is struck with an indomitable feeling that, actually, she wasn’t anywhere near as sad as she claims.

“Anyway, about that interview to discuss the experiment. I hope you didn’t forget.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyyyyyy titties.
> 
> @cosmowreath on twitter, please come and convince me to write whatever it is you're into.


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